Sculpture 666 - #1a

1

Pubis...Fellatius...Fetish. Very good. We're all here. Welcome to Sculpture 666, or more specifically The Art of Lust. I am Professor Rake, your lecturer. This is the introductory lecture session of a series of practicums in which you will participate. As such, I will be brief in discussing the history and goals of this class, and your responsibility and privilege of living up to them. All of you have been chosen for this specialized educational track for your outstanding ability in this particular area of art. Up to now, you were taught how to produce the raw materials for your art, which admittedly is the dirt and grit of it; however, now you will be shown how to mold and shape the raw material into the form most appealing. In this class, you will realize a portion of the true fulfillment that comes from the creation of true art, one of the most difficult skills to master...and to complete.

Make no mistake; there is no shortage of patrons for your art in our specialized market. The difficulty lies in keeping your art pure, undefaced by the slashing knives of the Enemy who thinks He knows more about art than you. Believe me when I say that near the most devoted patrons, there are always Enemy hackers who would melt your beautiful sculptures into unbelievable monstrosities. Beware the hackers and save your art to sell again and again. Perhaps all of you may know the glory, the fury, the taste of a completed work of art, but not, probably, until you have invested a great deal of painstaking toil. Even then, the rewards are often meager, and sometimes even blasted from your grasp. Hornsquat is a case and point.

I think all of you must have heard at some time the name Hornsquat. He is one of Hell's most famous and respected artists, but it was not always so. Granted, as a fledgling artist, he was without compare. Always, his sculptures were, if not the largest, the most beautifully convoluted complexities imaginable. He became strong from the nourishment of his art and confident in his artistic abilities. He was chosen as leader of the arts council and hand-picked to create works of art for our leader's own abode. And for a time, he kept our leader in plentiful supply and descended even lower in the ranks of Hell.

However, he was young, ambitious, and rash as is the case with most geniuses. He wanted to create a work so daring in its insolence, so vibrant in its blasphemy, so powerful in its obscenity that our leader would feel compelled to promote him yet lower. And in truth, he had created a sculpture from a former strong Enemy devotee that most probably guaranteed a promotion. I had never seen anything like it before or since. It fairly pulsated with life by itself. It lacked only the essence of the devotee himself to reach that pinnacle of utter astonishment, hopelessness, and horror that is the essence of Hell. But in order to make such a marvel, Hornsquat neglected other patrons, even his own nourishment, as he worked feverishly on his ambitious project. He was confident and miserly, gloating over the feast he would soon have, but he was also weak and haggard, and as a result, careless.

News of the devotee's impending death reached Hornsquat, and in an instant, Hornsquat was by his side trying to speed the process, for up till then, he had always sat slavering over his sculpture, refining it, caressing it, waiting for the day when the devotee's soul would animate it. Now that the day was at hand, he was insane with rapacity and hunger, and fear that his work might yet go for naught. He rained unrelenting torment on the devotee, which while extremely entertaining for us who watched, was ill-advised. Far better to let the devotee sink into a peaceful sleep and die, but Hornsquat would not listen to reason. In fact, he nearly clawed us to ribbons screaming at us to go make our own art and leave his alone. So we sat silent and worried, but enjoyed the sight of Hornsquat sifting the devotee. How could one help it?

It was at the height of the most ferocious attack that our worst fears were realized. He pushed the devotee too far. The devotee experienced too much of Hell too quickly, and it awoke in him a sense of his real position. How well I remember those horrible words of repentance he vomited, how he declared his last hope in the Enemy, how he loathed his past life and offered up his puny, sniveling present life and believed that the Enemy could save him. Believed! Believed despite the vast tanks of guilt Hornsquat had stored in him. Believed despite the tremendous work of art that had throttled energy from him for nearly half his life. Believed despite all of Hell's logic. To this day, it seems too fantastic to me, yet it happened, and I wasted no time in sounding the alarm.

But Hornsquat was far gone and seemed not to realize what happened. He mistook the acidic tears of repentance for the usual sweet nectar of pain and sorrow he tasted so many times in the past. It was not until after he dipped his finger to taste and had it nearly seared from his hand that he awoke to the peril of the situation. Frantically, he started back to his sculpture to see what damage was done, but it was too late. His beautiful, huge work was transported, and hung above his head, hoisted there by a powerful Enemy hacker. Before his eyes, he saw his art wholly destroyed, melted into a perfect sphere of glowing clay, ready for the Enemy to mold into whatever hideous art He willed. What was hard heaviness was changed to airy softness. What was complex and convoluted was made simple and smooth. No more spiked tentacles, or gaping, fanged maw, or bleeding, bulging, bloated eyes. All, everything of any worth, was swept away with a thunder stroke. And when the destruction was complete, the sphere began to ascend taking Hornsquat with it, for he had invested too much of himself in his artwork and was unable to detach himself.

As it ascended, the sphere began to swell and take the form of a small child crying in pain, while at the same time Hornsquat shrieked and wriggled, shrank and withered. Such would have been the grisly end of Hornsquat had it not been for the courageous act of Screwtape, a name you should all know. Our leader sent Screwtape as soon as the alarm sounded, and he flew to Hornsquat's aid, plucking him as he would a fly from a pile of dung for the glory of Hell and our leader.

Hornsquat was in desperate straits for some time as you can well imagine. For a considerable time, he could eat little more than pablum such as petty thieves and prostitutes. It was very nearly a century before he had the stomach and teeth for some solid food, which was roast Pharisee, if I'm not mistaken. Since then, he has made a rapid recovery and has proved a hundred times more skillful and effective than before his unfortunate mishap. He has devoted himself strictly to making patrons of ministers and other Enemy leaders to gain revenge for his pain, and it was largely due to his planning and persistence that this specialized art course came to be. He is the author of the textbook for this class which I now give to you all. With it, you will also find a dossier on your assigned patron.

It should be noted that Hornsquat has sculpted from one respected minister a piece of art so deeply rooted, so thickly branched and tentacled...it is a profound work with absolutely no flaw in its conception or development. It lacks only the minister's soul for perfection, and it is a miracle that this tremendous work of art has not sucked the soul from the minister sooner. Hornsquat has named his sculpture "Lust for Life", a particularly apt name considering the patron has very nearly substituted lust for his life, and Hornsquat himself has an unquenchable lust for the patron's life. In truth, I believe this work to be even larger and more beautiful than the one which was destroyed. And Hornsquat himself is in fine condition; he has not neglected himself as before. The experience of centuries backed by his own genius has yielded an abundance of smooth subtlety and cool-headed calculation which will serve him well as far as food is concerned. You may view Hornsquat's sculpture carved from the minister in the art gallery. The bulk of it resides there, but literally thousands of spiked tentacles grow out from it which, if you were to follow them, lead to the minister himself whose soul is pricked, punctured, and fairly cocooned in them. It will be almost a shame to consume so monumental a work, yet what other use is there for it?